1)  I still haven't come down from my Wimbledon high yet.  What made it great, for me, was not that Nadal won (although I did want him to win!), but that, despite the pressure of Federer's comeback, Nadal simply refused to lose, and in doing so forced Federer to choose not to win.  It was the best piece of sport I've ever seen, a story I could not stop reading until the end.  

Still trying to get P. to understand it, too.  To him, it was a great match, entertaining enough for a Sunday evening.  For me, it was no sleep before and no sleep afterwards, a compelling narrative, an illuminating, confirming, nearly-religious experience.  I think, with sport, either you have the faith that it means something, in which case it can be a metaphor for everything, or you don't have the faith, in which case it is just a waste of time.  

Going to buy the DVD, anyway.

2) Stephenie Meyer's Breaking Dawn is out in 9 days.  The first chapter was included in an Eclipse Special Edition, but you cannot read it online, as all the places that originally posted it seem to have been served with DMCA notices.  Now, I appreciate that an author wants sales.  Needs sales.  Deserves them for all of her hard work.  But this seems to me just a little heavy-handed, an attempt to get people to splash out more money on top of what has already been spent.  The first chapter is out there; why not let the internets spread the word and hype it a little more? What's the harm?

If people were posting the second chapter, I could understand it.

I already have Eclipse (in hardback, too) and I am not going to buy it again.  I wish I had the strength not to buy Breaking Dawn, but I can't resist the story.

3) I wonder if Henry James read any William Blake?  

Thel's Motto:

Does the Eagle know what is in the pit?
Or wilt thou go ask the Mole:
Can Wisdom be put in a silver rod?
Or Love in a golden bowl?

Might be an interesting connection between that and The Golden Bowl.  There must be a reason why James chose that Golden Bowl, and I'd love to know it.  I wonder if there might be some nearly-lost folk meaning to it, an old story with meanings that we no longer know popularly?

4) Moving neatly on to Robert Graves...I wonder if the White Goddess is really just an elaborate self-justification?  Because today I have the Furies, the anxiety, that empty feeling which must somehow be chased away, and I've been thinking about my family, about the particular woman in that family who had two men vying for her affections, and I can't see any poetic meaning in that situation.  Which is a lie.  I just want to see it.  Because Graves never talks, when he mentions particular instances of that relationship, of the effects of that mythological urge on the real people who are fulfilling it, or who must suffer the consequences.  Which makes he think he was either very lucky, or very guilty indeed.

5) I am not fundamentally a rational creature.  My brain works on lurid flashes of inspiration and ideas that might be either right or wrong.  But there is some element of rationality that stops me fully believing or committing to such things.  Bah.

Horrid unionists.  Isn't it enough that they propped up a moribund government in 1996 and 1997 without doing it again now?  

And when did Labour turn into the Tories, anyway?  I'm having a little trouble recalibrating my Tories-are-evil mentality right now.

Certainly I never thought I'd regard David Davis as anything more than an ambitious right wing *insert insult of choice*.  Didn't think I'd agree with him on anything, ever.

Damn.

And I did horrid things to my characters today.

I was so looking forward to this book.  The excerpt on the author's website created an insatiable urge to read more.

I'm not entirely sure the whole book lived up to this promise, however.  I enjoyed it; I read it fast; it's very exciting; fast-paced; hot sex.  I liked Noelle's cleverness - I like her bravery - I like her as a character.  No TSTL moments for her!

But.

1)  David.  Stock, stock, stock.  Mary.  Stock.  Colonel Munroe.  Stock.  Alistair Maclean was writing these characters with more depth in the 1950s.  (He did so love variants on Mary for the names of his blonde, brave, beautiful, loving womenfolk.  And have I mentioned his tortured hero with scars and limp complex?)  I love Alistair Maclean, btw.    I enjoyed the book.  I just would've liked a bit more originality on these particular characters.

2) The Swarm.  Not knowing their broadest aims just made the whole thing completely unbelievable for me and it meant the villains, particularly Owen, were only able to be stock villains.  A whole layer of complexity could have been added if these terrorists had some kind of aim.  Terrorist organisations don't usually start up to kill and terrorise for no reason.  They aren't loose associations of sadistic psychopaths.  They have a cause.  (I'm not saying they don't end up a bit like that on occasion!)  If the Swarm is more like a criminal organisation then why the fuck can't it be called that?  It just doesn't work for me.  It's a very simplistic definition of good and evil that left me unsatisfied, and I think we - writers generally - can do better.  I would certainly have preferred (this is probably my soapbox talking!) some equivalence drawn between what happens to Noelle near the end, and what is known as 'coercion' and sanctioned by the US government.  Because there didn't seem to be much difference (I will admit to spotting one).

3a) The ending, part one.  I felt it was very abrupt; I would have liked it to be more cinematic, more dramatic.  It was all too even with the rest of the book.  In a way, I think the unrelenting pace developed into a fault there.

3b) The ending, part two.  So they love each other.  Happy ever after.  Damn it, I wanted some evidence that it took them a little time to heal, even if they did it together.  I wanted an epilogue!  *stamps foot*

4) Some clunky writing that could've been straightened out.  No, it wasn't necessary for sales.  But this could have been a better book, and I think it is a shame that time wasn't taken by author, agent and editor to make it so.

In summary, the best thing about this book, its unputdownable quality, is probably its worst fault, too - because it led to things being overlooked that could have lifted the book, quality-wise.

Poor old dog, I just don't think he's going to get any better.  

I am musically ignorant.  This state is not going to last long, however.  I dislike being ignorant about anything.

Interesting programme on BBC4, about the child hero in fantasy.  Apparently fantasy helps us inadequates who worry that their parents didn't love them enough and that terrible things will happen to them, escape the real world.  It was a pity they didn't talk a little more about how the child hero returns, usually, to face his real world, not just to escape from it.  Concerns I had at the beginning of the programme were addressed during its course. 

Nice to see Alan Garner get some recognition, and Will Self was, as always, charmingly dismissive of and superior to everything.  If he wasn't so funny, he'd be very irritating.

Unfortunately it did not make P. better understand my way of thinking.  Fantasy's for children who won't grow up, he says.  I say, read some, and find out for yourself.  He says he can't be bothered.  I should just dismiss it and agree to differ - which he would agree with - but so much of me is so desperate for his approval that it's hard to do that.  While he actively wants me to think for myself and would be appalled if he thought I was doing or thinking things to gain his approval, my default position is to seek it.  I have to work on that.

Dog is kind of better, but sadder and more pulled-down than he was when he was actively suffering.  So not out of the woods yet.

Much as I hate giving Portillo anything (even one viewing figure), this was just too interesting to pass up.  Plus, I thought I might get to the Were you still up for Portillo? moment (I did!  And I loved it all over again.  I still have my Daily Mirror poster of ousted senior Tories.  I know, I'm sad.  But that cheers me up whenever I look at it).

Points:

1) All the Tories* have fat necks and chins that bulge out over their shirt collars.  Pigs!

2) All the old Tories, including Portillo (and he didn't flinch from the knowledge, for which I applaud him) were, and are, shits of the very first order.  They said so in their own words.  Or in Michael Howard's case, their own silence.

3) They STILL think that, if their message had been more effectively presented, that they could have won in 1997.  *headdesk, headdesk, HEADDESK*

4) William Hague said that Thatcher was the greatest peace-time Prime Minister we've ever had.  To which I shout, CLEMENT ATTLEE, CLEMENT ATTLEE, CLEMENT ATTLEE!  All respect I had for William Hague (which admittedly was not much) is now gone.  *HEADDESK*

5) Portillo is the only one who has been able to admit that the Tories between 1989 and 2005 were utterly, utterly, utterly wrong about practically everything, and nasty, dislikeable and arrogant to boot.  I offer him a measure of respect.  And that is something I never thought I'd say.

6) Today I have a sore throat from shouting at the TV so much.

*Tories = thieves.  They don't deserve the respect implied in calling them Conservatives.

Intellectually I can see that conservatism (small c is deliberate) is a valuable and useful philosophy.  But I am tribally bound to Labour and socialism and everything Tory makes my head explode with rage.  It's not a very pretty sight.

Other news: dog is still doing well.  Yay!

There's hope yet, apparently.  If the new medicine a) works and b) doesn't make him sick.

He's so old though, it's really just a race to see what will get him first - legs going, liver failure, kidney failure, heart failure, a small infection.

But he's sitting up, enjoying life, asking for love, walks and food.  It's good to see.

 I've just noticed that Chocky has grey eyebrows now to match his grey muzzle.

He seems slightly better today.

Enough with the self-pity.  

A friend came for lunch today and brought her new baby, and it is adorable.  And I don't even like babies.  I thought I might hit by a biological lightning strike, but it didn't happen, thankfully!

I've been reading old Enid Blytons and Pullein-Thompsons - needed a bit of comfort last week!

Also finished draft 2 of a short story, and the first draft of another.

On the not-so-good side, my darling little dog (see picture) has a cough which could be anything and which if it doesn't clear up in 2-4 days will end his life.  This is not happy-making, but he is 16 in Labrador years, and 128 in human years.  It's one hell of a life!

1)      I have felt so, so broken this week.  I'm broken in ways that won't ever be fixed, and I'm only just beginning to realise it.  

2)     When I fuck up, my immediate reaction is "He won't love me anymore."  I know why I react like this.  But after 12 years I really should trust him when he says it won't happen that way.  He can't prove himself any more than he has done and continues to do; I can't trust any further.   I think, gradually, I will get better at this.  But by god I am being slow about it.

3)      It hurts me when people say they're going to call - and sound like they mean it - and don't.  

4)      The Today programme said today that only 10 % of people have 'happy' childhoods.  That's sad, and scary.

5)      I cannot get beyond my high score in Tetris and I keep dying at about a quarter of the way there.  This is annoying.

This came in the same batch of library books as Gossip Girl and Getting Rid of Matthew.  I didn't think I would finish it.  I was wrong.  And I was pleased, to find out that I hadn't been quite mad that day in the library after all.

Back cover:  

Three couples, friends and neighbours...Tom, lazy and charming, looks after the children and thinks about writing a novel while his ambitious wife Sarah pursues her career as a journalist.  Nat is married to the unstylish Cassie, who spends her life in jodhpurs, but although an ill-matched couple they have a strong and enduring marriage.  Laure, the beautiful half-French wife of Gerard, is being shut out of his life because of financial worries.

One winter's evening, Laure and Tom dance together at a local ball, and suddenly a world of possibilities opens up between them.  Can they forget the troubles of their own home lives and find a new excitement, a new solace?  It's only a game, after all, not for real...But playing with fire can hurt, as they both find out.

I was impressed by sheer good writing at the beginning.  I read the first chapter, and then I read the end, (I know, I know) and then I read the rest.  It's a bit predictable, but then, it's that kind of book.  The characters were all well-rendered, and all except Nat entirely believable.  People really do live in the upper-middle class bubble depicted here.  Sometimes I wanted to give them all a smack, just to tell them to get over themselves, but this book is a Black Swan paperback and all the characters in every Black Swan are like this, so I can't say I'm much surprised; it is what I expected when I picked up the book.  Each character was recognisable by his or her voice, and Appleyard does a great job making each character sympathetic, even selfish Sarah and bullying Gerard.  The way she renders Laure's speech is quite brilliant, Laure speaks like someone who grew up in France, speaking English colloquially but very correctly, with few contractions and a precision of grammar.  Some of the questions Appleyard raises about relationships are very interesting, particularly the Tom and Sarah marriage.  How should families constitute themselves in the modern world?  Is violence against women ever forgivable?  How do children cope when their families are falling apart?  Etc.

Reservation - one character singlehandedly stops a terrorist from hijacking a plane, which is then a cue for a long didactic passage about terrorism and its effects.  It's just not very believable, plonked in the middle of the book, with the only repercussions seeming to be a) the hero is teased a lot by his children, and b) one character compares himself to the hero and finds himself wanting.  But the hero himself seems totally unshaken and unaffected.

So in summary, lots of skill, a little bit of thought-provoking, but in the end, this book was a predictable, light-ish read - not a beach book, but not a great work of literature, either.

I've read all Victoria Clayton's books, since I picked up Out of Love at the library when I was fourteen.  I still prefer that and Past Mischief to any of her more recent works.  I loved the seriousness treated with a light touch of those first two, but it seems to me that the real thoughtfulness has been left aside now.

I enjoyed A Girl's Guide to Kissing Frogs - it was funny, Marigold was engaging, I liked the glimpse into a dancer's life.  I couldn't work out why it was set in 1982.  That just seemed arbitrary.  All the action could have been set in the 1950s.  The end was predictable, and there is one plot element deserving of some real discussion that didn't really get it, and which therefore left me thinking, "Is that it?  They all live happily ever after even that revelation?  Er...it wouldn't work like that.  Dumb book."

I don't like Clayton's recent, romantic-but-impractical heroines, either.  Give me Diana and Miranda anyway - even Min.

The plot (from the back cover): 

When Matthew, Helen's lover of the past four years, finally decides to leave his wife Sophie (and their two daughters) and move into Helen's flat, she should be over the moon.  The only trouble is, she doesn't want him any more.  Now she has to figure out how to get rid of him...

Plan A: Stop shaving your armpits.  And your bikini line.  Buy incontinence pads and leave them lying around.  Stop having sex with him.  

Plan B: Accidentally on purpose bump into his wife Sophie.  Give yourself a fake name and identity.  Befriend Sophie and actually begin to really like her.  Snog Matthew's son (who's the same age as you by the way.  You're not a paedophile.)  Befriend Matthew's children.  Unsuccessfully.  Watch your whole plan go absolutely horribly wrong.  

Getting Rid of Matthew isn't as easy as it seems, but along the way Helen will forge an unlikely friendship, find real love and realise tthat nothing ever goes exactly to plan...

I picked this up from the library, the same trip that netted me Gossip Girl.  I must've been in some kind of blue fit that day.  I didn't read the whole back cover, either - just the first paragraph.  

I stopped reading on page 5.

I turned to the back cover.  I read it.  I thought, why the hell doesn't she just tell him to get lost?  Then I thought, does having hairy armpits really make you unattractive to the man who is supposed to love you?  Then I thought, why give yourself a fake name?  Then I got cross at the implication lying behind that use of 'paedophile'.  Matthew's son could be 16 and Helen would not be a paedophile if she did a lot more than snog him.

I stopped reading because if Helen was so unhappy about Matthew having a wife and family, she shouldn't have got involved in the first place.  If she didn't realise how it would be (I didn't bother reading that far to find out), and kept going because she was so in love (I don't believe, really, in this kind of selfish, self-centred love.  If you love someone, you don't tear them apart in that way.), that's more understandable, but why didn't she just end it when she stopped being in love (as she obviously had)?

It was just...stupid.

Full disclosure: I know first-hand the effect adultery can have on a family.  I do tend to be prejudiced against heroines who choose married men.  

It was my bad decision to pick up this book in the first place, but when I realised the central stupidity and passivity of the heroine (why can't she just say no to Matthew moving in?  Why?) I couldn't be bothered even to try.  

Next time I will read the back cover more carefully.

No spoilers here.  

I stopped reading on page 15.  

I cannot read about these shallow, trashy, brain-dead, adjectivally-challenged, super-rich poseurs.

I love YA and I love trashy books.  But this is dire.